This is the time of tension between dying and birth The place of solitude where three dreams cross Between blue rocks But when the voices shaken from… - T. S. Eliot

Blessed sister, holy mother, spirit of the fountain, spirit of the garden, Suffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood Teach us to care and not to care

I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love
For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith
But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought:
So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.
Whisper of running streams, and winter lightning.
The wild thyme unseen and the wild strawberry,
The laughter in the garden, echoed ecstasy
Not lost, but requiring, pointing to the agony
Of death and birth.

Not the intense moment
Isolated, with no before and after,
But a lifetime burning in every moment.

Shall we ever meet again?
And who will meet again?
Meeting is for strangers.
Meeting is for those who do not know each other.